A Saturday

We abandon our houseguest and bicycle to the Farmers Market. The sun, vicious in desert summers, is a joyful presence this bracing winter morning. 

 

The question on Randy Harris's whiteboard this Saturday is whether most people truly believe it is better to give than to receive. One women writes “maybe” and says she's “trying to teach my son that.” Others say they wish it were so. An acquaintance wearing his customary Trump cap says he divides people into those who prefer giving to receiving and those who don't, adding that the givers are generally happier. I resist asking where the Donald fits in. (A solid majority didn't believe that most people really think giving is better.)

We watch people pass, noting all their guarded and unguarded self-presentations. 

 

A friend sits on a nearby bench with his cane. We met playing touch-football more than 50 years ago. We acknowledge that our bodies aren't quite as they were then, and mourn two fellow players who died this year, just weeks apart, and discuss other friends. We could be two grizzled Sicilian fishermen mending nets, or two doddering Brits drinking in their club, recalling our shared youth like yesterday, yet aware a spot of time has passed.

A young woman friend, walking with another young woman, pauses to say hello. I guess they're a couple, and (a closet romantic) am delighted for them. As we all talk, their bodies edge closer to each other in silent confirmation. I appreciate the lightness of their mutual affection as I might the notes of a flute wafting from a doorway around the corner.

Meanwhile, across the street a tiny boy holds the leash of a dog three times his size. The dog sees another dog a few yards away. I watch helplessly as the leashed dog starts to rush toward the other. He will pull the child along roughly, probably causing him to fall on his face on the pavement. But Daddy grabs the leash, averting disaster. The tableau feels like a haiku no one else sees. We are all that small boy, blissfully going about our business, unaware of what's about to jerk us into another life.

I stop to buy granola from a vendor who was a boy when I first visited his family near Silver City. He's now a man, with a new pilot's license. When I ask how he is, he replies, as always, “Blessed.” I reply that I feel blessed too, but with no clue by whom or by what. 

 

Someone asks me, “If you were God, and could say something to everyone in the world, knowing it would be heard, but you had only 30 seconds, what would you say?” I mumble that I can't improve on the usual stuff we all constantly forget: the Golden Rule, focus on your gratitude, be tolerant, avoid being judgmental.

After a busy morning of marvelous local vegetables and conversation, we bicycle home. The houseguest is waiting, her forepaws extending toward us beneath the gate, her tail wagging. 

 

We drink tea and coffee in the garden. Sounds of distant traffic and sirens sharpen our awareness of the garden's peace. Looking into the dog's eyes, I recall Benjamin's “Blessed,” and suddenly know what I'd say to everyone if I were God: “Thank you for sharing our beautiful world and making it more beautiful by being yourself.”

Happy Christmas! And salutations to what blesses you.

                                                            -30-

[The above column appeared today, Sunday, 22 December 2019, in the Las Cruces Sun-News, as well as on the newspaper's website (the newspaper's website) and KRWG;s website.  A spoken version, which will air during the week on both KRWG and KTAL, 101.5 FM (www.lccommunityradio.org) and is available on KRWG's website.]

[The Saturday Las Cruces Farmers' Market matters to us: we buy much of what we'll eat in the next week, we get to talk or play chess with an abundance of friends and acquaintances, and buying local is an important value both for community and global climate reasons (although, yes, we recognize that our focus on fresh local food ain't gonna stop the climate-change train).  It's fun.  Coffee from Vintage Mercado and a breakfast burrito from the Napolito's truck, plus a massage from Mike -- all add to the morning.

And this past Saturday, a former market and Co+Op regular we don't see often these days (for good reason) graced us with her presence, and seemed happy to gas casually with old friends and constituents): Xochitl Torres Small wandered through the market with her husband Nathan (whom we see more often) today.  I hope they didn't plan on buying too many vegetables, because they were doing a lot of visiting with folks -- when she wasn't on the phone, or texting.  You could see the job in being back here.  I shudder to think of the effect on someone of being daily, 24-7, a part of the madness of our politics and government.  Just the toll of being "on" so much of the time, and the unrelenting questions of all sorts, but also the difficult task of sifting everything to distinguish the small compromises the situation requires from the ones that really aren't so small. 
It's easier to know who your friends are in Las Cruces than it is in Washington.
It was fun to see her! ]

Unburdened by such cares, this old man sits in the garden petting the dog, and a Zennish haiku visits:



                                 dog's head in my lap

                                 she knows only this moment
  
                                 -- i am still learning